


Beyond the Sea

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action/Adventure, Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - World War I, Alternate Universe - World War II, Dieselpunk, F/F, Fighter Pilots, Heavily influenced by Bioshock, M/M, Many Bioshock references ahead, More tags will be added as necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-11-19 05:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Trolls and humans have been at war for twenty years. The surface of Earth is little more than a massive war zone. Humans have fled to the safety of the sky, where a massive floating kingdom, known as Skaia, has been established. Trolls have gathered in the sprawling underwater metropolis of Alternia. Neither territory is perfect, but years of war have nurtured countless numbers of residents willing to fight for their home.Amidst all this is a brother-sister fighter pilot duo from the Nation of Skaia, and a pair of Alternian dissidents. When the four meet, their worlds begin to fall apart, only to be reassembled in the most unexpected ways.





	1. Welcome to Rapture

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is a new idea I've been bouncing around for a while. It's pretty heavily influenced by _Bioshock_ (and, by extension, _Bioshock Infinite_ ), so think of that as the setting. It's set in the early 20th century. There are other, background relationships that I didn't tag.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**"Welcome to Rapture"**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sEFIZh_Zscc) by Garry Schyman, from _Bioshock_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Here**](http://tt40art.deviantart.com/art/Character-Design-Sketch-688069980) is a reference pic for Dave.  
> [ **Here**](https://tinythreadthings.tumblr.com/post/166049260464/just-another-little-sketch-if-you-like-my-art-be) is a reference pic for Karkat.

**15 APRIL 1912 - 03:05  
LOCATION: Landing Bay 15E, Hangar 2, Prospit**

It begins, as most interesting things do, with a bang. The cause is a Sopwith Long Range Tractor, an inelegant plane in every right, plummeting from the sky. The two pilots' curses are muffled by the sputtering of the propeller, and the final impact is as messy as the plane's design. Most of the triple-decker's wings are quickly shorn away, and the propeller is sent spinning across the concrete.

Normally, such a scene would cause a great deal of commotion. However, at this hour, it's a miracle that a single person even witnesses the collision.

And the witness in question is a man by the name of Dave Strider. Now, his name, alone, bears a great deal of merit; he's a Lieutenant Colonel of the prestigious Skaia Air Force Ambushers. However, his figure is also formidable. He's the tallest member of the 413th division, and a lifetime of hard work has given him a broad-shouldered, powerful build.

As anyone would, upon witnessing the crash, he rushes towards it. In one hand, he holds a gun; the other hand clutches a flashlight. From experience, he knows that these planes aren't common in Skaia. In fact, he's seen only one over the span of a decade of service, and that was a specimen brought in to construct spy planes.

"Name, Rank, and Division," he calls out, inching towards the wreckage. His finger presses even tighter around the trigger of his gun. "This is Lieutenant Colonel Strider, of the 413th SAFA's, and I demand to know who you are."

In response to this, there's a sudden burst of muffled murmurs. Hushed whispers are exchanged and, eventually, there's an awkward silence.

Dave's patience thins. "Who the hell are you?" he demands.

Wood splinters. Metal clangs against concrete. A figure rises from the rubble, and the light from Dave's flashlight illuminates it perfectly. A humanoid creature--grey skin, yellow eyes, wiry black hair, and pointed ears--peers from the debris. This one is male, as his horns are a light orange. They're hard to see, though. In fact, the nubby protrusions are almost entirely engulfed by this particular troll's wild hair. (Females' horns are known to be a darker orange color, almost red.) When he speaks, his voice is rough and scratchy, though it holds one's attentions. "Don't fucking shoot!"

Dave pauses briefly, though his finger quickly squeezes tighter against the trigger. "Why the hell shouldn't I?"

"Well," reasons the troll, "Does it look like _I'm_ about to shoot _you_ , you giant fucknozzle?"

Again, Dave pauses. "No," he admits, "But that doesn't mean you _wouldn't_. There were two of you in the plane."

Now, another troll emerges. This one is female, and her lips are coated with black lipstick. Though it's dark, she seems to have an odd radiance to her, as if her skin emits light. "That would be me. My name is Kanaya Maryam, and I concur with my foul-mouth companion, Karkat. We're by no means here to cause harm. In fact, we're fleeing the Alternian Empire."

"Really?" By now, Dave is confused enough to lower his guard. He slips his gun into its holster and quirks his brow inquisitively. "You were fleeing the Alternians, and you planned on going _where_? The entire surface is a war zone."

"That's the fucking problem, you water-logged newspaper. Damn. Are you always this fucking dense?" counters Karkat. Upon closer inspection, Dave notices that this particular troll is bleeding, from what appears to be a rather nasty gash across his forehead. However, as opposed to the usual spectrum of troll blood colors, his blood is a bright red. It seems that Karkat, too, notices, as he quickly unrolls some gauze from his pocket.

Around now, it also becomes apparent to Dave that the troll's left hand is little more than a crude two-pronged grasper. Going for speed, Karkat opts to open the hook by biting onto a knob and moving it up. When the gauze roll is between the two metal parts, he moves the knob down, stopping when it can't close any further. As he wraps his wound, he continues, "Look, I know you're probably going to shoot us, but I'm going to bet my left shame globe It's better being shot up here than it is to be executed down there."

"It is," Kanaya interjects.

For all his outward toughness, Dave is an admittedly kindhearted individual. Right now, he finds himself unwilling to follow protocol, which requires him to kill without question. He spares the pair for the time being, though he remains wary. "Why would you bother coming up here, then?"

"It's not like we _planned_ on landing on your fucking soot-spewing fancy-pants floating fuckland," Karkat scoffs. "Our engine was dying. If you haven't noticed, the Alternian are more adept at naval technologies."

Again, Dave examines the gnarled remnants of the plane, which was even uglier _before_ its demise. "That's a bit of an understatement."

Karkat ignores the jab. "So," he says, drawing out the vowel, "You're not going to put a bullet in our skulls?"

Without weighing the pros and cons, Dave shrugs. "Nope," he says, trusting his gut, "You both seem genuine enough. I reckon it's best to hide your grey asses, though, seeing as most folks aren't too keen on trolls around here." Here, he whistles. A wide, insincere grin spreads across his face. "Ain't that a surprise?"

Kanaya responds with a half-hearted snicker.

Karkat replies with a roll of his eyes and a gruff growl. He clambers out of the wreckage and approaches his newfound ally. "So, what? We're going to prison?"

"No, you're going to meet my sister." Here, Dave considers his commentary. Without any outward indication of his true intentions, he adds to his comment, "So, basically, you're going to prison." He ends by gesturing for the pair to follow him.

And, with no other options available, the two trolls comply.

* * *

  **15 APRIL 1912 - 03:45  
LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Rose Lalonde isn't exactly an intimidating figure. She stands at a height of no more than five feet, four inches, and has a rather curvy build. At this exact moment, however, she is far less intimidating than she would be in her usual uniform. Right now, having been unceremoniously roused from her sleep, she stands in the doorway of the apartment she shares with her brother. Dark shadows hang beneath her eyes, and her hair—usually held back with a plain pink hairband—sticks out in every direction.

Her brother, Dave, stands opposite her. Flanking him are two trolls. One of them is a short, grouchy-looking male; the other is... Well, if Rose were to be honest with herself, she'd have to say the other is the most beautiful being she's ever seen. However, this does little to boost her mood. "Any reason you were out so late?"

Dave shrugs.

Rose expected this answer. Or, rather, she expected no answer. She steps aside, levels a pointed glare at her brother, and continues her commentary, "You've been doing this constantly for the past three months, David."

"Name's Dave." By now, Dave has meandered into the living room. He pulls off his aviator jacket and tosses it aside. There's little precision in his actions. He undoes the array of leather straps and twine roping, which usually sits in a rough sideways 'Y' shape across his back, and removes his prosthetic arm. Whereas Rose is used to this, it seems the two trolls are not.

Kanaya shows mild interest.

Karkat reacts with a silent mix of repulsion and confusion.

Dave ignores both. He carelessly discards his prosthesis, which amounts to the lower half of his right forearm, on the dining room table. From here, he proceeds to act as if nothing is amiss. He hums to himself as he goes about usual routine.

Rose, however, puts a swift end to this. As he reaches for the coffee pot, she grabs his wrist. Her grip is loose enough for him to easily pull free, but restraining him wasn't her goal; she merely needed to get his attention. "Can you explain why there are two Alternians in my living room, David?"

"Oh." A strange look spreads across Dave's face, as if he'd simply forgotten to mention this.

"It's not as if you're still fourteen, David. And you can't just bring members of the enemy army into my apartment like your high school flings." The words are chosen carefully. Rose is looking for a reaction.

Dave doesn't come through, though. Instead, he shrugs off the commentary and gestures towards the short, angry-looking troll. "That's Karkat." Now, he nods towards the tall, slender, and still admittedly gorgeous female troll. "That's Kanaya. They'll be staying until I can help them fix their plane."

"For what?" Rose demands, "So they can report to Alternia?"

"Nah," Dave snickers, but his face shows no hint of a smile. "They're getting the hell out of that shithole. I don't blame them. Who the hell would want to live in a sunken fishbowl, anyhow?"

The conversation grinds to a halt.

Right now, Rose considers her options. She could throw the two trolls out, which would be the most logical thing to do. Humans have been at war with these creatures for a solid twenty years. Still, the female troll _is_ pretty. She's _more_ than pretty, really. If the pair really are running from their government, throwing them out is a death sentence. And...

"Fine." Rose lets fort a long sigh. She raises her hands in defeat, then approaches the haggard duo. Though she initially plans on a simple bow, Kanaya extends her hand as she approaches. Not wanting to look like some sort of soulless monster hellbent on murdering her guests, Rose accepts the offer. The points of Kanaya's black claws dig into the back of her hand, but the wounds are superficial and the pain dull enough to be cancelled out by an intense study of her face.

Her jaw is defined, yet soft, and her thick lips are curled into a courteous smile. As she learned, all trolls have yellow eyes, but their irises betray their blood color; hers are a brilliant shade of jade.

"I'll do my best to ensure your safety," Rose eventually manages to mutter.

When Rose  moves to greet Karkat, he rejects the offer. He steps back, away from her, and makes his feelings as clear as the glass lenses of every pilot's standard-issue goggles. "I'll trust you on that when I get off of thise shitty floating city with my ass intact," he huffs.

Rose shrugs the act off. It's probably been a long day for the pair, and Karkat isn't in the best mood. Rather than waste time dwelling on a rejected salutation, she continues, "I'm going back to bed. Kanaya, you can stay in my room." Now, she turns to her brother. "Dave, Karkat stays in your room."

"Got it." As he says this, Dave sticks his recently emptied mug into the sink. He turns his back to Rose, offers a lazy wave, and gestures for Karkat to follow him. He doesn't check to see if he actually is, though, as he grabs his arm from the table and trots off to his room.

Though he eventually complies, Karkat seems hesitant to follow Dave; Kanaya goes with Rose willingly. In fact, to Rose's surprise, she's quick to strike up some discussion, too.

"Is he always that cold?" she inquires.

"Dave?" Rose makes a poor attempt at stifling her laughter. "He's about as warm and welcoming as an ice box."

"As I sensed." Kanaya nods. "The same can be said for Karkat."

Now, Rose nods. She opens the door to her room.

It's a small space, though she's managed to squeeze a bed and a sofa in. It is neat and tidy, and the only possible exceptions are a few stray uniform jackets hanging from her bedposts. "It's not much," she says, arranging some spare pillows at one end of the worn-out pink sofa, "But it's a place to sleep. I hope you're not terribly disappointed."

Kanaya responds with a small smile, and Rose finds her heart fluttering as the troll continues, "I can't be very picky, now, can I? We _did_ crash-land on this floating city and latch parasiticly onto your brother for shelter."

Rose laughs. "True. Do trolls sleep in beds?"

"We sleep in recuperacoons. They're large sacs filled with what you humans would describe as slime."

"Sounds messy."

"Ah. One benefit of living underwater is the ability to quickly rinse away the excess sopor. But, yes, it's messy."

Rose yawns. Her entire day had been spent filing paperwork to _officially_ describe her most recent outing, so she isn't exactly filled with energy at the moment. "Well, then, I hope this will suffice."

"It shall," Kanaya replies, settling into her place on the sofa.

* * *

  **12 APRIL 1912 - 04:00  
LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Dave Strider's room is, quite frankly, a fucking dump. He _knows_ it's a dump, and he often says he'll fix it. He never does, though, and it makes for a messy room. Clothes are strewn on the floor (though he's sure to keep his jackets hanging on his bedpost). Empty beer bottles and discarded pages of poetry litter the area.

Upon arrival, after throwing his arm onto the upper bunk, he clears the lower bunk. It's a swift, careless process; he merely sweeps his arm across the surface, knocking a briefcase and other, assorted items onto the floor.

"This must be the excrement chute of the entire apartment complex. Congratulations, Strider, you've made a space even I, a fucking asylum-seeking castaway, am loathe to inhabit." Karkat's commentary is delivered without any hint of insincerity. His arms are folded across his chest, and his eyes—the pupils of which are rimmed by a strange candy red—are focused on the floor. "I suppose you're aware of this, though. Your head is shoved up your ass, but I'm skeptical that it's shoved _that_ far up."

"Well, ain't you just a bundle of fun," Dave defensively goads. "I can kick you out just as easily as I let you in, you know."

"I'm aware." Karkat shrugs. "Doesn't mean I have to be your best buddy."

"Fair enough." At this point, Dave begins to clamber up the ladder and onto the top bunk. "You can stay up as long as your weird troll psychology requires, but don't wake me up with your shit."

"Wouldn't fucking dream of it," huffs Karkat.

"Interesting blood you've got, I was just noticing—" Dave begins.

Karkat cuts him off, pointedly shooting back, "That's none of your goddamned business."

"Fair enough. I assume the hook hand isn't, either?"

"If you tell me about yours, it fucking is."

At this point, Dave is fully aware of the sarcasm of the statement. Still, he offers his story. "I signed up as a pilot. I got through training, but crashed on the day before I was slotted to graduate. Some dumbass clipped my plane, and we both went down. The other fucker managed to land his safely, and I slammed into a highly flammable barn like a bat hitting a homerun ball. Or, maybe, a bird hitting a window."

A long, vaguely hotile silence falls between the pair. Eventually, however, it's broken by Karkat's sigh. "Fine," he snaps, "I might as well entertain your obviously fried-to-hell think pan. I took a machete to the arm in a trench raid. Now, wasn't that the most rollicking goddamned good time you've ever had?"

"Not really," admits Dave. He draws his blanket around him as tightly as he can, and concludes the obviously frayed line of communication. "Good night."

There's no reply from Karkat.


	2. How She Sees the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**"How She Sees the World"**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5hVucaqydk) by Garry Schyman, from _Sounds from the Lighthouse_ (Bioshock 2 Soundtrack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed each bold header is a perspective shift. If not, now you know!

**16 APRIL 1912 - 09:00  
LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

When Kanaya Maryam wakes from her slumber, Rose's bed is empty. The house is filled with a scent she can't identify. It's something sweet and starchy; it's nothing like she's ever encountered, especially not in Alternia; and, it's intriguing enough to lure her from the room.

The aroma leads her to the kitchen, where she finds Karkat taking tentative bites of some sort of flat, round food.

Nearby, Rose seems to have finished her meal. At the very least, she isn't eating. Instead, when she notices Kanaya, she greets her with a thin smile. "I'm assuming neither of you have seen my brother?"

Kanaya shakes her head.

Karkat responds, as he often does, with little more than an ounce of tact. "That bastard? The one with his head shoved up his own refuse chute? Nope. Haven't seen him, and I fucking hope I don't any time soon."

The smile on Rose's face remains, and it doesn't change. "Well, that's unfortunate. He was planning on evaluating your plane later today. He was up much earlier than you two, but he ultimately went back to bed. He did, however, mention that he'd have to discuss the plane's condition with the pilot. Clearly, only one of you could have been in that position, and I'll assume it was--"

"It was me," admits a very reluctant Karkat. "What's he going to do?"

"Well, he was planning on evaluating the condition and seeing how long it would take to repair the plane."

"That sounds fantastic," Kanaya interrupts before Karkat can respond. She quickly places herself between the two, forcing the deescalation of the impending conflict.

"Fantastic." Still, Rose's smile remains as it was when Kanaya arrived. It's beginning to become disquieting. "Well, then, both of you will need disguises."

At this point, Kanaya's demeanor changes. Any unease from Rose's seemingly fixed smile is quickly forgotten, and her attentions are now focused on one thing. "I have an idea for that, actually."

"Really?" Rose's smile shifts, turning into a look of pleasant intrigue. "Feel free to elaborate."

"I'd rather fuck myself with a rusty hook than listen to this," Karkat grunts. With this said, he shoves his half-finished plate aside and wanders off, sequestering himself in the living room area.

"So long as we keep our faces well-hidden and our horns covered, I assume no one will give us much attention. Am I correct in assuming people are about as interested in one another here as they are in Alternia?" Kanaya asks, by now unaware of Karkat's departure.

Rose snickers. She rolls her eyes and sits down, occupying the seat directs across from the inspired troll. "I presume you mean that no one really gives a damn about anyone else?"

"Perfect!" Kanaya snickers. "Well, then, all we'd really need are standard clothes for around here. Long sleeves, long pants, and head coverings should do nicely. The best way to avoid drawing attention is to use the most common colors. From what I've seen lying around here, these range from dull greys to subdued earth tones."

Rose's smile fades, shifting to a thoughtful expression. "The most common military uniforms and civilian ration clothes are varying shades of khaki, if that's what you mean."

"That is _precisely_ what I mean."

"Well, then, this might require a trip to the clothier's. My clothes won't fit you, and Dave's certainly won't fit Karkat."

Kanaya nods. She taps her finger against the table, and her claw produces a dull clack whenever it hits the wood. "This might pose a problem, as measurements are typically done in close proximity. I am unaware of my own sizes, but I often repair Karkat's uniform, so I know his."

"Actually," says Rose, "The clothier is a good friend of mine. She won't care." Her smile has returned, though it's more of a michievous smirk at this point. "If you give me a moment to gather my things, I'll take you there. For now, you can borrow an old cloak. I have a few aviator caps, too. If we cut some holes into it, no one will really question the horns."

"Really?" Kanaya asks, intrigued by the development. "As I recall, humans have no horns. Neither you nor Dave do..."

"Pilots sometimes add horns to their helmets. It's a tactic to blend with the enemy. It's hard to see exactly who's in the plane you're shooting for when you're flying, is it not?"

"True enough."

Rose extends her hand towards Kanaya. "Well, then, let's prepare for a little adventure."

And, when she accepts the gesture, Kanaya learns something remarkable: humans' hands are remarkably warm. It's a strange sensation; trolls are naturally cold-blooded, and it's often rumored that a human's touch burns. This, however, isn't unpleasant, nor does it hurt. In fact, Kanaya has to admit that it's an enjoyable sensation.

* * *

**16 APRIL 1912 - 11:00  
LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Skaia**

If there's one thing that Karkat Vantas would rather die than do, it's take Dave goddamned Strider his breakfast. Yet, here he is, bringing Dave goddamned Strider his breakfast. It's not as if he can exactly refuse; Rose asked him to perform this task nicely, and he gracious acquiesced. Still, he doesn't have to _enjoy_ it.

"Wake up," Karkat demands, kicking the end of Dave's bed. "Your breafast is cold, and it's almost noon."

"Hm?" Dave sits upright and yawns. He tugs at his nightshirt, which briefly reveals a patch of scarred, burned skin on his right shoulder. "Oh. Thanks."

"Are you usually this fucking lazy?" Karkat asks.

Dave smirks in response. "I was up late last night."

"I fucking noticed. You made enough noise for the entire population of Alternia to hear you."

"It wasn't that bad, dude." There's a brief pause, after which Dave continues, saying, "It looks like Rose made pancakes."

"So that's what you call those sugary sheets of dough and shit?"

"Yeah. I figured you wouldn't like them." For reasons unknown, Dave rolls his pancake into a compact cylinder, then proceeds to eat it like a burrito. "Trolls have a palate for bitter foods, right? That's what I've always heard."

"I guess." Karkat rolls his eyes. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his back against the wall. "So, what?"

"What what?"

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"That."

"That what?" A cocky grin is spread across Dave's face. It's obvious that he's enjoying his stupid game.

Karkat, however, is not. In fact, he hates it. "Rose said you're going to fix the plane," he says, loudly. "Are we going, or what?"

Dave shrugs. His smile fades, and Karkat can only assume he knows the fun is over. He rubs the back of his neck and sets his now-empty plate atop the nearby bedside table. "I have to change first. I can't just mosey outside wearing the same rags I wore yesterday. _Everyone_ will know."

"And will anyone actually give a fuck?"

"Not really." Dave rises from his spot on the bed and begins to usher Karkat out of his room. "Now, I don't know what sort of things happen in a troll's head, but I don't want to be any part of some sort of strange alien sex fantasy. Get your ass out of my room."

Karkat wrinkles his nose at the statement. He gags. "What makes you think I'd want anything to do with you that isn't fixing my plane and getting me the fuck off of this soot-spewing floating death trap?"

"I have been definitively voted the sexiest man on Hangar 2 by five different panels, each made up of entirely different people," Dave responds, his face showing no signs of emotion. (Karkat is unsure of the truthfulness of the statement. Moreover, the seriousness can easily be called into question.) "Move your ass along, now."

"Yeah," grumbles Karkat, "Whatever." He needs no further prompting. The last thing he wants to see is Dave Strider's bare ass, and he's out of the room as fast as he can run.

For a half an hour, Karkat waits in the living room. He does little more than watch the ceiling fan slowly spin.

Eventually, though, the monotony is broken.

Dave emerges from his room. In his right hand, clasped between intricately carved fingers of solid wood, is a plain grey hooded cloak. He shoves this in Karkat's general direction, and the fingers gripping it loosen. "You'll want this. It's lunch rush. If there's one thing every asshole around here can unite over, it's some goddamned food. Rub that sweet, greasy shit all over your body." As per usual, his face betrays no emotion.

Karkat shifts uneasily. He grabs the cloak, throws it on, and draws the hood forwards until he's sure his face is hidden. He's unsure of how to respond to Dave's blabbering, and he isn't exactly in the mood to try and figure it out.

* * *

**16 APRIL 1912 - 11:45  
LOCATION: Landing Bay 15E, Hangar 2, Prospit**

It's obvious to Dave that the plane is very, very fucked. There's no way it'll be flying before Christmas, and making that deadline is a huge stretch. The wings are a total loss, as is a large chunk of the body. The only major components to survive the crash are the body's steel frame, the engine, and most of the controls. Even these, though, aren't in immediately useful states. "How badly do you want this to be the plane you leave in?" Dave asks.

From behind him, Karkat responds in what Dave assumes to be the usual fashion. "It's my fucking plane," he snaps, "I'm not leaving it here. What use could humans have for it, anyhow? Your planes might as well be three hundred fucking sweeps ahead of ours."

Not exactly up for some long-winded rant, Dave remains quiet about sweeps. He assumes it's a unit of time. "Well, then, it'll be a while. You've fucked this thing up really good. I'm amazed you're not dead, actually. An anti-aircraft missile would do less damage to this thing."

"I don't recall it being Shit on Karkat Day. When did that begin?"

"That's every day, pal." At this point, Dave shrugs. He begins loading the wreckage into his truck.

"I'm not your pal, you clueless fuck."

"Ditto." From what Dave's seen, Karkat isn't much of a conversationalist. Likewise, it seems as if the perpetually grouchy troll would make a shit companion. "Just help me get this into the truck."

Karkat shrugs. For what Dave can only assume to be entirely self-serving reasons, the troll follows orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!


	3. Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't beta read this chapter well. Oops.

**17 APRIL 1912 — 11:30**  
**LOCATION: Shopping District, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Dave Strider studies the trinkets on display in the windowfront display. A tiny diorama, which depicts a lost worldly wonder known as the Eiffel Tower, shines in the light of the midday sun. Beside this, little procelain figures are sculpted to appear as they would have been in life. A mustached man walks his dog, while a fashionable woman searches through her tiny purse. It's a wholly useless set, and the price is exorbitant.

"They're terribly tacky," Rose says. She shakes her head and buries her hands in her pockets. "Why they would bother to display such a garish, overpriced item in this part of town is beyond me."

Dave responds with a shrug. "They're remarkably crafted. It'd be one fuckin' hell of a risk to own them, though. One nice attack and you lose it all. That's the good thing about having nothing: you have nothing to lose." A smile, wide and a bit aloof, punctuates the statement.

Nearby, Karkat pulls the hood of his coat forwards. "This is a fucking idiotic idea. We're going to get caught, then I'll be dead."

"Do you have to be such a goddamned downer?" Dave spins around to face the troll. He continues walking backwards. "You're a real fuckin' worrywart. Chill out and let life go as it goes. There ain't much you can do about it."

Rose offers up a quiet chuckle. "That's quite a profound comment from the often nonsensical Dave Strider," she says.

Karkat rolls his eyes. He nods forwards, saying, "Watch yourself, idiot, you're going to run over someone."

Dave shrugs. "I don't have much to worry about. I've got rank and veteran status. I mean, really, have you seen my fuckin' awesome arm?" As if to emphasize this, Dave holds the prosthetic hand aloft. With a variety of subtle movements, he wiggles the fingers.

"You're a pain in the ass. Maybe I'd be better going back home and begging for a quick death," grumbles Karkat. Pulling a hand from his pocket, he risks running his claws through his hair. "So, what're we doing here?"

"Picking up parts for your goddamned plane, good sir," Dave retorts. He flashes a cocky smirk, though the expression lacks a certain amount of depth. He steps forwards, grabs the brass handle of the door before him, and pulls the heavy wooden portal open. With a flourishing gesticulation of his hand, he invites Karkat and Rose to enter before him.

Rose goes without hesitation.

Karkat slows. He eyes his surroundings warily, then turns to Dave. "Are you sure you even know what you're doing? I'm trusting you with my fucking life, which is a horrible prospect by itself..."

"I worked my way up from a humble plane engineer, Vantas. I'm perfectly capable of understanding some basic aviation issues," Dave responds. He steps inside, allowing the door to thud shut behind him. He, too, looks around. His eyes linger on the model planes, which line the shelves. Each is made of solid metal, and the tiny trinkets feature accurate representations of the components used in their large-scale construction. As a child, he often played with them. He's disassemble them and reassemble them with an unparalleled vigor. Of course, this was dependent upon his older brother's mood...

"So, where exactly are we acquiring the money for these contributions to our new friends?" Rose asks, arching a brow.

Dave shrugs. "I know some people," he says, taking a great amount of care to retain an apathetic expression. "I can also sell some of the scrap. Really, the whole plane is goddamned scrap. That thing got busted the fuck up."

"Must we continue to mock me for my apparently subpar flying skills?" groans Karkat.

"Of course," Dave answers. He approaches the front desk, which is currently unmanned, and rings the bell to summon a serviceperson.

* * *

**17 APRIL 1912 — 12:00**  
**LOCATION: The Western Front, France**

John Egbert lays in wait. His rifle is primed, his senses keen, and his protective goggles in place. The leather grip patches on his gloves stick to the metal barrel of his gun, producing quiet, unpleasant sounds with every movement. His breathing is calculated and quiet.

If he was completely honest, John Egbert would say he never wanted to join the war. In fact, most people don't. Every able-bodied man and woman is required to contribute, and John is merely one of countless innocent bystanders. He had originally applied to be a medic, but was refused. At the time, there were more than enough medics. His services weren't needed, and he was promptly shipped out with the 134th land-based Skaian Infantry Division. Of course, positions quickly opened up. When the call for more medics went out, John eagerly applied. This time, he was accepted.

Thus, he finds himself ankle-deep in thick, soupy mud. Explosions ring out around him, and dead bodies litter the area. A disembodied arm, it fingers caked with dried blood, dangles inches from his face. At some point, an explosion embedded the flesh and muscle of the appendage deep into the barbed wire walls above the trench.

"Private!" A voice calls out. It belongs to a large, muscular man. John is sure that the now sagging handlebar mustache was once meticulously waxed, and that the man's tightly curled black hair was once free of dirt. The insignia on the man's lapel indicates that he's a platoon sergeant. "No, medic," he corrects himself as he nears his target. His boots squelch in the mud, and he maintains his balance by leaning against the length of an additional rifle. "The Skaian forces are evacuating this trench. We have admitted defeat. If you wish to live, you'll follow me."

John opens his mouth. He considers protesting the command. There are certainly more than enough injured men still out there, sinking into the mud and grime. Yet, he can't bring himself to say anything. Instead, he slings his gun's strap over his shoulder, and silently follows the anonymous sergeant.

A loud, sputtering whir is heard overhead. When John looks up, he sees the source. A formation of about thirty enemy planes, their wingspans outlandishly long and their construction shoddy, wobble overhead. If John's sense of direction is correct, they're heading straight for Prospit. This isn't exactly worrisome, though. Plenty of attacks are made against the main city every day, and they all fail. Sometimes, minor damage is sustained; ultimately, the majority of the shitty enemy planes are shot down before they're within firing distance.

* * *

**17 APRIL 1912 — 13:00**  
**LOCATION: Shopping District, Hangar 2, Prospit**

The supplies have been purchased, and Dave is confident they'll be delivered to the appropriate location before the week's end. This is of some comfort to Karkat, but not much. He already fears death, and it hangs above his head like an unwelcome specter at every corner. He sticks out like a sore thumb, risking discovery with every outing he makes. Nonetheless, there's something charming about Prospit. It's unlike the cramped, overpopulated alleys of Alternia. Where the underwater metropolis is lit with neon signs and flickering fluorescent bulbs, Skaia is lit by the sun. The buildings, even the most decrepit, shine like gold. Their facades play off the natural light, and the shadows create dramatic displays across their surfaces.

"It's so fucking exposed," Karkat mutters, drawing the cloak closer to himself. "Aren't you all afraid of attacks?"

Dave laughs. "Your planes are shit, dude. We can shoot those out of the sky like ducks. Easy as slicing butter with a steak knife," he says, his voice filled with confidence. "Sure, some will get past, but our buildings are made to withstand damage. We rebuild, we move on."

As if on cue, a distant sputtering is heard. Shortly thereafter, sirens begin to wail across the landscape. The streets are quickly emptied, and windows are swiftly shuttered. Rose takes cover behind a sturdy brick wall. Dave and Karkat, however, don't have enough time to do so. Instead, Dave simply dives for the ground. He grabs Karkat, pulls the troll down with him, and throws his jacket over the two of them.

The sounds of a sputtering engine roar overhead, accompanied by the persistent percussion of aerial gunfire. A short distance away, an anti-aircraft gun groans. Deep, heavy beats echo up and down the streets and, after a few seconds, there's an explosion. Rubble rains from the sky. Chunks of brick pummels the leather jacket, beating against the men beneath it. Then, nothing.

"I promise, this isn't a common thing," Dave mutters, eventually breaking the silence. He lets forth a gruff sigh as he rises to his feet, pulling his jacket back on. Smoke rises from a nearby fire, though he seems indifferent to it all. Likewise, the residents begin to resume their daily lives. Shutters are opened, and people pour back into the streets like ants. "Usually, all the planes are shot down before they get this far inland."

Karkat nods. He's skeptical of the statement, though he doesn't have much to go by. The only concern he has right now is staying alive, and it seems he's done just that. For now, he's fine. "See, at least we don't have that problem when we're under the fucking ocean."

"I assume you still have to deal with torpedoes, though?" Dave raises a brow, his expression a pointed plea for a response.

And, while Karkat does so with grudgingly, he complies. "Well, duh. We're at fucking war with each other." He pauses. By now, Rose has rejoined the group. She's a few yards ahead, and walking with purpose and speed. Not that this deters Karkat's discussion. "I mean, I'm not personally spearing your insufferable ass through with a bayonet, but we're supposed to be enemies."

"That's a solid fact, dude," Dave comments. Then, he, too, pauses. His eyes fall upon a dead body. A white cloth has already been draped over it, but the blood seeps through.

To Karkat's interest, the blood is bright red. In fact, it's only a few shades off of his own. "You... Do you all bleed that color?"

"Oh, yeah. You trolls all bleed that freaky fuckin' rainbow, don't you?" Dave comments, pulling his eyes from the grisly sight. Burying his hands in his pockets, he continues onwards. "Yeah, humans only bleed one color, and it's red. Yours is, too, ain't it?"

With a good deal of hesitation, Karkat nods. He wouldn't normally divulge the information. After all, he's a mutant. His blood color isn't even a standard point on the hemospectrum. This fact, alone, is enough to get him killed. It's something he's always been ashamed of, yet he begins to wonder if it truly means anything. "Yeah, our ranks are based on blood color."

"Hm." Dave's response is flat. If he has any interest in the information, it's not obvious. If anything, he's bored. "That's fuckin' weird. I can't imagine appointing anyone a general just because they bleed some goddamned color."

"That's just how it works in Alternia," Karkat says. The words are true, and they have been for quite some time. Now, however, he finds himself mulling them over. He's never questioned them before. No one would dare question them; opposing the common laws of the land is akin to treason. The way Dave has phrased this common aspect of daily life, however, brings up a good point. Why _do_ some trolls achieve fame and fortune for little more than the price of being born?

As if to stir up even more thought, Dave continues, "You earn your rank around here. Sure, we ain't the perfect society, but we're fuckin' fair."

By now, Karkat can do little more than nod. He's already too deeply entrenched in his thoughts.


	4. Cohen's Masterpiece

**18 APRIL 1912 — 13:00**  
**LOCATION: Atlantic Ocean**

While Dave is typically the gunner on missions, he's perfectly capable of piloting an aircraft. In fact, he graduated his class above Rose in terms of flying, but his sharpshooting was what drew the attention of the brass. Still, he maintains an interest in flight. Above the clouds, gliding on the wind like a lithe specter, he can be alone with his thoughts.

And that's exactly where he is now. His plane rumbles, the engines rattling the cockpit. Right now, he's on mandatory guard duty. He's scouting for attacking planes, and is tasked with alerting headquarters if he sees one. Today, however, is quiet. It's usually quiet, and he assumes it will remain that way. The Alternians never launch two attacks in a row. It's an odd superstition of theirs.

He checks the various gauges, then relaxes. For now, he needs to do little more than lay back and watch the skies.

The clouds are light and white. The sky is a clear, lovely blue. The sun shines with uninhibited brilliance, and he can see some of the other pilots nearby. The radio chatter serves as a soundtrack, with pleasantries being exchanged like packs of cigarettes on a battlefield.

"The last fuckers sent down to the Western Front were nearly all wiped out. Ye hear that news?" The commentary takes Dave by surprise.

Above that, it terrifies him. John was in that group. Certainly, at his rank, he would have heard any bad news, but... "Skywatch to Mayor," he says, his message broadcasting to the nearby planes, "Are you sayin' everyone with them is dead?"

A gruff laugh serves as a reply. "No disrespect, sir, but we all know about yer crush on Egbert. Lad's fine. Just a bit banged up."

A sigh of relief escapes Dave. For now, he disregards the commentary. He returns his radio to its usual settings, and resumes his duties.

Observation runs for as long as the plane's fuel holds out. In Dave's case, that's roughly six hours. He's in this for the long haul, and he's come prepared. From his pack, he pulls the red blanket Rose knitted him when they first entered training. He wraps this around himself, then pops open a thermos of warm apple cider. He takes a few sips, returns the cap, and allows himself to give in to his feelings. His body relaxes, as does his usually busy mind.

* * *

**18 APRIL 1912 — 15:30  
**LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit****

Kanaya sits in the crowded, musty living room of the Strider-Lalonde residence. She stares upwards, towards the tiny, buzzing surface insect. It circles the flickering overhead light. Though it's annoying, the creature fascinates her. Aside from artificially introduced bees, Alternia lacks any insect life.

"Are there more forms of tiny life, such as this, up here?" she asks.

Rose, looking up from the dishes she's been washing, shrugs. "Bugs are everywhere. I assume that means you're not usually on the surface?"

"Nope," Kanaya responds succinctly. "I was a recordskeeper, in accordance with my assigned hemospectrum placement. From what I understand, humans have no such distinctions."

"We can be terrible to one another for different reasons," Rose says. She finishes drying the last dish, puts it away, and sits down at the table. She takes the spot across from Kanaya. "The hemospectrum is based on blood color, right?"

"Correct. I'm jade-blooded, which places me at the rough middle of the spectrum. Those above me have no reason to be serving in military posts, and I was simply deemed to have a slightly more royal shade of jade blood." Here, Kanaya shrugs. She's always been indifferent to the idea. It's unfair and unjust, yet she never really hated her place in society. In fact, she was perfectly content with her job as a bookkeeper. She had only joined Karkat because she considers him the rough equivalent of a brother.

"Where's the goddamned nuisance?" Karkat interrupts, clambering out of Dave's room like a drunken toddler. His brows are furrowed, and the edges of his lips form a distinct frown. "That bastard kept me awake all night with his human respiratory quirks. Do all of you make those fucking awful noises?"

"Snoring?" Rose asks, a bemused smile spread across her face. "No, but Dave does. He's off with the Lookout Airforce, patrolling for enemies. He'll be out most of today."

Perhaps unsatisfied with this reply, Karkat folds his arms across his chest. He rolls his eyes. "How is he going to fix our plane if he's spending all his fucking time doing other shit?"

"We have duties to perform, as I'm sure Trolls do, too. He'll be back soon, and he's promised to begin sorting through all the debris tonight. If you so desire, you could help him."

A low, guttural growl intermingles with a series of high-pitched chirps. A look of disgust creeps across Karkat's face. "I would rather rip out my own digestive tract and strangle myself with it. However, I don't trust that slimy fucking bastard as far as I could throw him, so I'll take you up on your harebrained offer."

"Don't mind him," Kanaya interjects, her voice soft in comparison to her companion's, "He means nothing by it. He's simply frustrated."

Here, Karkat opens his mouth to respond. However, a pointed glare from Kanaya silences him. He buries his hands in his pockets and slinks back to his room.

* * *

**18 APRIL 1912 — 21:00**  
**LOCATION: Loading Bay 15E, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Karkat Vantas wants nothing more to shrink into the rough fabric of the oversized cloak he's wearing. He wants to draw the hood over his face and cease to exist. Anything is better than listening to this Human continue to ramble on and on about absolutely nothing. Nonetheless, he understands his situation. He bites his tongue and remains silent, allowing for the Human to keep going. Right now, it seems that he's discussing the merits of vinyl records.

"Are all Humans like this?" The Troll's brows shift. One moves up, one moves down. He becomes the perfect model of confusion. "You seem to be the only one capable of being useful for little more than annoying the fucking shit out of everyone. Truly, you're a marvel of science. There's nothing beneficial about your existence, nor is there any apparent reason for your people to have refused to cull you."

"I've heard 'bout that sort of shit," Dave says. "Don't fuckin' understand it, but I suppose that's why we're supposed to be at war with each other, right?"

Karkat prepares to respond, only to find himself unable to do so. Somehow, he finds truth in Dave's words. They stir something within him, and he slowly closes his mouth.

Dave, meanwhile, continues, "Like, we're just going to kill each other eventually. I'll probably end up droppin' a bomb on your head, so it doesn't really matter if I help you out, right?" His commentary is poignant, yet his expression remains the same. His lips form a thin line, and his posture remains relaxed and disinterested. "How do Trolls speak English, anyhow? You fuckers are supposed to have been living it up underground and in the ocean for centuries."

"Our society has observed yours for a while. We just didn't bother to interfere. It wasn't any of our fucking business, and we just didn't give a shit. Besides, we live much longer than you puny bags of water. Trolls are a hardy race, and your average one can keep on performing basic living functions for about sixty-nine sweeps."

"Sweeps?" Dave snickers. "The hell is a sweep?"

Karkat pauses. He taps the pointed tips of his black claws against his arm. "Right, you don't use that system. That's about 150 years."

To this, Dave responds with a whistle. "Well, damn, that's a pretty fuckin' long time. I'm assuming that's without the war?"

"We're just as subject to disease as you. It's just a different variety of hoofbeast shit." Again, he pauses. He searches through his mind, trying to recall the human equivalent of the word he wants to say. He knows that the terminology has to do with a very specific variety of hoofbeast, but he can't remember which.

"Trolls have some fuckin' interesting vocabulary." Having said this, Dave returns to sorting through the rubble. He's formed several stacks, seemingly based on material. Metal is in one haphazard pile, and cloth is in another.

Silence falls between the two men. Eventually, the only sounds are those produced by Dave's work. Metal scratches against metal. Fabric rustles. Quiet squeaks sometimes come from his arm, and the wood sometimes lets forth quiet taps as it hits together. When Karkat studies the arm closer, he can't help but admire it. Unlike his own, it's carefully crafted to be a fully functional replacement. The aesthetic concerns have also been addressed, and it appears that the creator went through great lengths to make a believable replica of a human appendage. Despite its rigid motions, putting a glove over it would likely hide its true nature from all but the most observant of onlookers.

* * *

**19 APRIL 1912 — 01:00**  
**LOCATION: Fitzgerald Institute of Research and Engineering, Hangar 1, Prospit**

A tiny plaque sits on a desk, and its shining surface bears an inscription: Dirk A. Strider. Papers litter its dusty wooden surface, and sticky patches mark where beverages have been carelessly spilled onto it. A scratch-covered phone sits at the corner. The numbers on its dial have long since worn away.

Dirk Strider is, as he will proudly declare, the older brother of Lieutenant Colonel Dave Strider. Appearance alone is enough to indicate this. He has the same golden-blond hair, and the same round, yet somewhat beady eyes. His brows have a natural and pronounced arch, though they're currently furrowed in concentration. A pair of round, clear-lens glasses hold a tin mask at the vertical center of his face. The delicate tin spans the width of his nose, and its features are carefully hand-painted to resemble his lightly tanned skin.

He's survived a tumultuous home life, and formerly served as a highly decorated captain in the Skaian Ground Offensive Force. Now, however, his attentions are on a small notebook. Cramped handwriting covers every available surface, though the words are indecipherable to anyone without the key. After a few minutes, he swivels his chair around, and faces the shelving behind his desk. He pulls down a box of metal parts, and begins to assemble them.

"It's getting pretty late, Dirky," his secretary says. She's a fairly short woman, with a curvy build and dark brown skin. Her arms are folded defiantly across her chest, and her lips form a tiny pout. According to the name tag affixed to her vest, she is Roxy Lalonde. "I thought you said you weren't going to put in so much overtime from now on."

Dirk lets forth a dismissive huff. He continues tinkering. "Take the complaint up with Jake," he grunts, gesturing to the southeastern corner of the room. There, set atop an easel, is a portrait in an ornate frame. The subject is a young man, his already tan skin darkened further by the sun, with nearly groomed black hair and a smile that could charm even the most apprehensive of people. Bright green eyes stare out from behind rectangular frame glasses. Before this is a small rolling file cabinet, atop which is a beautiful and well-maintained bonsai.

Roxy sighs. She runs her fingers through her hair and wanders off. Her modest pink heels clack against the stone tile floor of the research hallway, and the sound echoes.

Dirk cares little about the noise. His attention span is indivisible, at least for the time being.


	5. La Mer (Beyond the Sea)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are multiple versions on the soundtrack, and [**this version**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwkOZbW1k1I) is the one I'm thinking of. The song Dave sings is "Somewhere a Voice is Calling", from 1901, and you can listen to a version [**at this link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LNBIJo1_l0)!

**21 APRIL 1912 — 08:15**  
**LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Karkat Vantas breathes a long, bored sigh. He stares at the grimy ceiling, as he's been doing for the past few hours. "Do you think that the Alternians are looking for us yet?"

From her spot at the dining table, Kanaya shrugs. She continues working on knitting, a craft Rose has recently taught her, as she responds, "It's quite likely. I would assume they've gotten wind of our escape." She pauses, studies a stitch, and mutters a string of curses under her breath. With nimble fingers, she undoes the recent work and restarts several rows back.

Meanwhile, Karkat toys with the release clasp on his prosthetic hand. "And we both know we'll be killed faster than a two-headed mutantblood when they find us," he muses aloud.

"Of course. That's what Trolls do."

A grunt of disapproval and disgust escapes Karkat. "I mean, sure, but it's fucking stupid. The Troll population has been falling for the past decade."

"Well, it doesn't really matter, now, does it?" When Karkat looks to Kanaya, he finds an enigmatic smile gracing her features. The odd look only intensifies as she continues, saying, "We're no longer in Alternia, so it's useless to bemoan what fate might befall it."

There's a pause. Karkat tangles his fingers in his wiry black hair. A guttural, gurgling hiss comes from his throat. "I fucking _guess_."

"Mhm." Kanaya returns to her knitting.

The door to Dave's room opens, and the blond steps into the living area. A jacket hangs from his left shoulder, and his shades are clipped to his collar. His eyes are half-closed, and his hair bedraggled. He yawns, revealing slightly crooked, yellowed teeth. "'Mornin'."

"Greetings," Kanaya replies instinctively.

Karkat says nothing. Instead, he observes the Human.

Dave shuffles into the kitchen area, where he begins brewing himself a pot of warm, brown liquid. Karkat has seen such beverages many times, though he's never bothered to learn the name. Whatever it is, it smells terrible. Dave, however, seems to enjoy the scent. A small smile tugs at the edges of his lips and, as the brew begins to heat up, he makes himself a bowl of lumpy, bland-looking meal. He tops the slop with a sprinkle of brown sugar, then meets Karkat's gaze. "Oatmeal," he mutters, his letters slurring together. "Want some?"

Karkat scoffs. "I've eaten better food by scraping the bottom of a waste disposal bin."

Dave shrugs. He runs the fingers of his left hand through his hair, doing little to tame it, and snickers. "Suit yourself, dude." At this point, his attentions are drawn away by the ding of the brewing machine. He pours the concoction into a faded red mug, and sits down across from Kanaya. Before eating, he pulls the jacket back onto his shoulder. In the flickering light of the room, it's apparent that Dave's chin is covered in fine, light brown stubble.

Despite his apprehensions about the man's character, Karkat has to admit that he's attractive. In a strange, otherworldly way, he's pleasant to look at. He's unlike the rough-skinned Trolls of Alternia, at least.

"And where is Rose on this fine day?" Kanaya asks.

Again, Dave shrugs. "It's Sunday. She's meeting with her cousin, Roxy, out at Hangar 1."

A flicker of disappointment. A sigh. Kanaya regains her composure with far more grace than Karkat could ever dream of. "Ah. There are more floating structures connected to this?"

Dave swallows a spoonful of his meal before responding. "Yeah. There's..." He pauses. It seems as if he's having trouble remembering the details, but he eventually comes to a conclusion. "There's eight of them. Hangar 1 is for government work. The big brass and fancy pants rich folk live there. We're Hangar 2, which goes with Hangars 6, 7, and 8 in the residential category. The others are for assorted purposes, like farming."

Kanaya offers a hum of understanding. "Intriguing."

"Not really." Dave shrugs off his coat, revealing the remnants of his right arm. The appendage ends about five inches from his elbow, and the mangled remnants of a tattoo color this area. "What's the bottom of the ocean like?"

"Absolute shit," Karkat huffs. He folds his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. "Your ganderbulbs would probably melt from their fleshy sockets if you ever had to gaze upon the goddamned shipwreck that is Alternia. At least, up here, you get natural light."

"The highblood Trolls needn't any light to actually see," Kanaya interjects.

"The rest of us do," Karkat says.

Dave, still appearing half-asleep, snickers. He drinks from his mug, then slips on his shades. "Sounds like one hell of a place."

"It's not," Kanaya and Karkat reply in unison.

Though Kanaya immediately returns to knitting, Karkat offers to elaborate. "Really, it's a fucking pit. It leaks constantly, and it smells like dead fish."

"I'd guess it would, being at the bottom of the ocean." By now, Dave has finished his meal. He reaches into his pocket, pulls forth a pack of cigarettes, and sticks on in his mouth. He lights it, breathes in, and exhales a cloud of pungent smoke.

* * *

**21 APRIL 1912 — 11:45**  
**LOCATION: Loading Bay 15E, Hangar 2, Prospit**

 _"Dusk and shadows falling,_  
_O'er land and sea;_  
_Somewhere a voice is calling,_  
_Calling for me..."_

Music has always been second nature to Dave. He's found comfort in it since he was a child, when his older brother would use songs to calm him during his eldest brother's drunken rages. To him, it's a distraction. Music occupies the mind and satisfies the soul.

 _"Night and stars are gleaming,_  
_Tender and true;_  
_Dearest, my heart is dreaming,_  
_Dreaming of you."_

He sifts through the mangled metal mess, which he's managed to sort into more refined piles, and studies a few of the larger remnants. The craft's name managed to survive, though it's written in a script he can't understand.

And, as if he's sensed the confusion, Karkat speaks up. "It's basically a crude version of Man-killer," he says. "Pilots are usually from the lower echelons of the hemospectrum, and they have a tendency to over-exaggerate their bloodlust."

"From what I know," Dave says, his eyes still glued to the wreckage, "Trolls are an inherently violent species. Y'all don't seem too bad to me, though."

"Kanaya isn't generally vicious, but I wouldn't want to be anywhere near her when she gets pissed. A desire to kill is highly valued, so I'm not exactly popular." Karkat shrugs. He scuffs his shoes against the concrete floor.

Dave, meanwhile, lets forth a long, disgruntled sigh. He begins working, starting with rebuilding the aircraft's skin. From one of the building's storage units, he takes a welder. He brings two masks. After donning his, he hands one to Karkat, saying, "You're going to want this."

A look of skepticism crosses Karkat's features, but he ultimately complies. He dons the headgear, and remains silent as Dave works.

And, this mutual silence remains for some time. In place of conversation is the commotion outside the building, and the quiet work being done within it. The blow torch hisses, metal clangs against metal.

Eventually, Karkat breaks the silence. "That song from earlier..."

Dave pauses. He stops his work and peers at Karkat. "It's an old one. Most people don't really care for it now."

"I've heard it before..." Karkat says.

"Maybe on the Front," Dave suggests. He's aware that soldiers will sometimes sing to pass the time. In fact, that's where John gets most of his piano inspiration from.

Karkat hums thoughtfully, though the noise is more akin to a series of low pitch chirps. "Maybe."

"There's music on Alternia, right?" Dave turns back to his work, and holds the torch's flame to the metal beam he's been manipulating. "I mean... There have to be some sort of distractions from all the shit that this world has to offer. People'll crack like spoiled eggs if there isn't."

"Not really." Karkat buries his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. His gaze drifts upwards, towards the exposed metal crossbeams overhead. "Art and music aren't Troll disciplines. We have movies, but they're pretty bad."

Dave makes note of this. With every new thing he learns about Alternia, the existence of Trolls grows bleaker. They wage constant war, rarely distract themselves from their day to day lives, and have little regard for one another. Sure, Prospit has flaws, but at least it's better than _that_... "Well, then, you should like it around here. We've got escapism for fuckin' years."

"The only escape in Alternia is dying or being a highblood." There's a brief pause. Then, Karkat elaborates. "Highbloods have fuchsia or purple blood."

"Ah" is Dave's simple reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments, feedback, and suggestions are always welcome!**


	6. God Bless the Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, [**here's the song link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw)!

**22 APRIL 1912 — 01:45**  
**LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Dave Strider stands in the kitchen of his apartment. He leans out the window, looking out to the dark streets below, and nurses a rapidly shortening cigarette. The pulsating red glow lights his face, creating dark, shifting shadows across his features. Somewhere, far below where he stands, he can see someone riding a bike. A battery powered headlight is mounted to the handlebars, and he can see as the bicycle turns the corner. Then, it escapes his line of sight.

"I thought humans naturally slept during the night," Karkat says.

Dave jumps. He fumbles with his cigarette, and watches as it tumbles from his grasp. It falls, becoming little more than a speck against the inky darkness of night. "Jesus!" he huffs, turning to face the source of the sound. "Don't fucking do that."

"I'm just asking a question," shrugs Karkat.

"No, I mean sneaking up behind me." Dave breathes a long, ragged sigh. He runs his fingers through his hair, then tugs at the straps holding his right arm in place. "And, yeah, people usually sleep at night. Problem is that I couldn't sleep, so I came out here."

Karkat nods. He approaches Dave, but stops about a foot away. "I guess you could say I share your sentiment. Your floor is the least comfortable place to sleep, and that's from someone who's served a few rounds in the fucking trenches."

"Well, pardon me for not gettin' more beds for you," Dave huffs. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out another cigarette, and sticks it between his lips. He pulls out his lighter and sets the tip ablaze. A deep breath in is followed by a cloud of smoke, which billows forth from his nostrils. "Don't Trolls have some sort of weird, fuckin' creepy replacement for beds?"

"Recuperacoons are specially formulated to create comfortable sleeping environments. The sopor used to fill them is essential to maintaining a restful night's sleep, but I see that you Humans haven't figured that fucking simple shit out yet." Despite his sharp reply, Karkat's voice lacks bite. Usually, there's a noticeable edge to his words, but it's not there. "Sopor represses nightmares and heals minor wounds."

Dave shrugs. He returns to looking out the window. "Well, then, we're both assured that losing a fuckin' limb ain't considered minor," he hums.

In the street, a car comes screeching to a halt. A loud, angry honk indicates the driver's mood. Another car, with its bumper now hanging from the front end, continues to rattle steadily onwards.

Meanwhile, Karkat offers a huff of disdain. He takes a seat at the nearby dining table, and folds his arms across his chest. "I'm certain it wouldn't heal your shitty personality, either, Strider. Now, what could possibly keep a Human awake? The ones I know of are eager to sleep at every possible chance."

"Same as you said, pal." His eyes follow the path of a rogue rickshaw bike, which careens down the sidewalk. "Nightmares, I guess."

"Really?" Karkat's voice is soft, now. There's a peculiar quietness to it, something Dave has never heard before. "We might both be fucking ourselves over for the same goddamned reason. I was dreaming that the Alternians caught me and sent me to be executed."

"Hm." While Karkat might be willing to admit his reasons for being awake, Dave is far more hesitant to divulge his. In fact, he keeps his lips sealed. He taps the wooden fingers of his false hand against the windowsill. As he always has, he derives an inordinate amount of pleasure from the firm tapping noise the action produces. "We've been fighting each other for fuckin' decades, and it's gotten us absolutely jack shit nowhere. i mean... Not we, but Trolls and Humans. If we weren't doing that, we'd be doing so much other goddamned great bullshit. We'd be kickin' out the raddest ideas and the sickest beats, but we're just sending everyone to die in forgotten old streets. You feel?"

For the first time since the pair have met, Karkat is dumbstruck. He stares at Dave with wide eyes and, after a few minutes, nods slowly. "You do have some semblance of a point," he mutters. "It's one massive, futile clusterfuck. Not that anyone would listen to two nobodies, right?"

With his filters inhibited by a lack of sleep, Dave allows himself the luxury of a snicker. "Yup."

* * *

**22 APRIL 1912 — 03:00**  
**LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Though it's said that the mind escapes to the realm of dreams, Dave finds that it's often where his mind simply churns. It's where his least pleasant of memories go to die, and where he often ends up trapped in endless cycles of killing or being killed. He's learned to accept it, and he's learned to separate his dreams from reality with the utmost ease. He knows he's dreaming. He world around him might look real, but it's not solid. Like a bad photograph, the edges are blurred. Nothing is distinct or concrete.

He finds himself standing in a familiar place, surrounded by the familiar stench of wet soil and blood. When he looks down, he finds that his hands are covered in blood. When he looks ahead, he sees an endless battlefield.

He knows this dream. He knows what will happen. He will march to the south, driven by an unstoppable force, and murder a young Troll. By his best estimates, the young infantry soldier is little more than half his own age. The blood will be thick, cool, and sticky, and the vivid rusty bronze will stain his uniform.

He's resigned to this chain of events.

He steps forward, prepared to relive the moment in vivid detail, only to be stopped. When he looks, he finds Karkat standing before him. His face is emotionless, and his posture enigmatic, but there's a distinct protective aura about him. For some reason, Dave takes comfort in Karkat's presence. He enjoys the company the Troll offers, even if he's aware that it's merely a figment of his own imagination.

* * *

**22 APRIL 1912 — 10:00**  
**LOCATION: Stanford Market Square, Hangar 6, Prospit**

The trolley sways gently as it rumbles down the street, pausing only to pick up or drop off passenger. Though the air outside is pleasant, the atmosphere within the tiny train car is oppressive and humid. Occupants are crowded together, packed against one another like bullets in an ammo box. Yet, to Kanaya's surprise, they never look at one another. Despite the close quarters, no one has so much as glanced in her direction. Not that she's complaining. Any attention will certainly result in being caught.

"Now stopping at Estates Boulevard," a voice announces, crackling through the static of the intercom.

The trolley slows to a halt. Rose steps from her spot and heads for the door.

Naturally, Kanaya follows. Once she's caught up, she speaks. "So, where are we going today?"

"A few of my herbs have unfortunately passed, and a friend of mine will be providing me with replacements. Her name is Jade, and she's a lovely person. I'm sure you'll have no problems with her." Rose punctuates the commentary with a small smile, and Kanaya feels her cheeks heating up. She's well aware that, to an astute observer, her skin has taken on a subtle green hue. "She also has a few products suitable for creating meals for you and Karkat. Dave has told me that your friend has complained about the food."

Kanaya rolls her eyes. She draws the hood of her cloak further down to shield her face from any possible onlookers. "Really? That certainly sounds like something he'd do. My deepest apologies, he's a bit much to handle."

"None needed. Dave is quite fond of him, so it seems that his commentary is appreciated," Rose says. She stops, takes a left, and enters a large building with a pastel green facade.

When Kanaya follows, she's thrust into a mystical place. Foliage hangs from the ceiling, and vines creep up the railings and walls. The air smells like an innumerable variety of spices.

"Rose!" The greeter is a Human woman. Her skin is dark brown, and her green eyes match the flourishing surroundings. "And I'm guessing you're Kanaya?" Before continuing, she lowers her voice, "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

Kanaya nods. She stares at her own reflection, which is shown in the round lenses of the woman's glasses. "And I suppose you're Jade?"

"The one and only," Rose says, her grin widening. She approaches the woman, embraces her, and begins exchanging pleasantries.

Kanaya, meanwhile, finds herself fascinated by the array of plant life. Though Alternia has a wide variety of its own flora, she's always considered what she's read of surface life to be far superior. It's more beautiful and more alive. The vibrant greens outshine the dulled blues and pastel browns of Alternian plants. One particular specimen draws her attention. The green leaves are numerous and fragrant, surrounding a delicately arched purple flower. Two petals sprout upwards, like the raised wings of a hummingbird, and another grows downwards.

"You reel seem to like that one, don't you?" Jade's voice startles Kanaya from her intense study. As the Troll stumbles back, a hearty laugh fills the space. "Sorry. I thought you'd hear me coming. That one's a cutie, isn't it?"

Unsure of how to respond, Kanaya nods.

Jade, meanwhile, flashes a brilliant smile. "It's rosemary. Up here, we use it to flavor foods and all that fancy stuff. I just think it looks nice, and it's got a great smell. I keep some in my room to keep it smelling fresh."

Again, Kanaya nods. "Interesting. Back in Alternia, we use plants purely for nutritional value. Flora deemed to have no functional value is swiftly culled."

"Yikes," Jade mutters, her smile fading slightly. "No, we love our pretty plants. This one's not exactly useless, but some other ones are. Either way, we keep them around to make things look good."

"Strange," Kanaya muses aloud.

Jade shrugs. She takes the plant from the shelf, and heads towards the counter. "Here, I'll throw this one in for free. You seem really fond of it, and I'm confident Rose can take great care of it. If not, I have plenty more." With this said, she wraps the plant and its pot in a clear plastic sheet. She ties the top off with a colorful ribbon, which she carefully fluffs to a cheerful puff, and slides it to the edge of the wooden countertop. "Enjoy it! That one's a really hardy guy."

Taking the plant in her hands, Kanaya can't help but smile back. There's something charming about Jade and, above all, there's something charming about Humans in general. They're curious creatures, yet Kanaya finds herself charmed by each she interacts with. "Thank you, Jade."

A wink precedes the response. "A friend of Rose is a friend of mine!"


	7. It Had to be You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Here's the usual link**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EsP7ncQf-Q), this is one of my favorite tracks from the soundtracks.

**23 APRIL 1912 — 12:30**  
**LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

Dave Stridle idles, leaning his shoulder against the arch leading from the hallway to the living area. In one hand, he holds a crumpled piece of paper. In the other, he holds a quietly cooing pigeon. A cigarette hangs from his mouth, and its smoke forms a wavering upwards shifting tendril. The light red glow frames his face, and the natural flicker makes the shadows shrink and grow and dance.

"A summons, I assume?" Rose inquires, approaching Dave from behind.

The man nods. He crumples up the page, tosses it into the nearby trash bin, and pulls a new piece of paper from one of the drawers in the kitchen. Setting the pigeon on the table, he pens a new note. When it's done, he rolls it up and pushes it into the tube tied to the bird's leg. He opens the front window, and allows the messenger to leave.

"Am I the only one who finds it funny that they're pushing for pigeon mail, now? It seems to be excessive."

Dave shrugs. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke. It floats out the window, and is quickly dispersed by the breeze. "It seems a little extra to me, yeah."

* * *

**25 APRIL 1912 — 09:30**  
**LOCATION: Somewhere over coastal China**

As a lieutenant colonel, Dave has far more power than most to decide when and where he'll fly. His missions are structured according to the instructions of those higher up, but he has leeway when it comes to deciding when he'll get around to doing them. Of course, he can only delay the inevitable for so long, and he's already put off serving his latest mission for upwards of two weeks. So, he now finds himself piloting a P-66.

Like every pilot, Dave has his favorites. Of all the planes, this is his least favorite. He's never been a fan of monoplanes. He considers them inelegant, but, on a more important level, he dislikes their lack of maneuverability. Speed is one thing, and agility is another. According to Dave, the more important of these two attributes is the latter.

Nonetheless, he can't complain. He's been given one of the newest versions of this particular plane, and it's equipped with the best guns. His job is relatively simple, too. All he has to do is provide cover for some ground troops. He's had harder missions. He's threaded a bulky carrier plane through a narrow mountain pass, and negotiated solo battles against multiple enemies. An escort mission along a massive, open coastal plain is nothing.

He addresses his fellow pilots briefly via radio, using his given nickname. "Turntech is in place, taking the lead," he announces, gently increasing his plane's speed. He lowers the altitude, and stops once he can see the shapes of the soldiers below. He watches, observing as they crawl and sprint and stumble through the sand. Then, he looks to the skies. He watches for enemy aircraft, and listens for their engines' telltale sputters.

"Viper reporting. Enemies spotted, now engaging." The announcement comes through a slurry of static and crackles. A plane banks to the right, and falls behind. Then, the distinctive percussion of gunfire begins.

Below, the soldiers scatter. Some sprint for safety, others aim their guns to the sky. Some fall, and their blood seeps into the sand like food dye on a paper towel.

Dave, meanwhile, scans the area. After a few moments, his gaze lands on a wavering biplane. The wings are made of poorly reinforced canvas, and the hull is crafted from feeble metal. He, too, breaks formation. He sweeps upwards, then banks to the left. Lowering the nose slightly, he makes a wild charge at the target. A gunner, with horns akin to those of a deer, turns. Dave shoots before they can fire. The canvas tears like tissue paper, and the craft plummets from the sky. It slams to the ground, kicking up a cloud of sand, dust, and mud.

Having fell one aircraft, Dave begins returning to formation. He's neared his spot at the head of the group. Then, he hears it. A series of rattling bangs. A crack. A vague, stinging pain. His eyes peer through a hole in his windshield, and his good hand instinctively grabs at his right side. The wound is superficial. The bullet merely grazed him, and the blood loss is minimal. The primary problem is locating the attacker.

Dave points the plane upwards, and begins hurtling to the skies at a near-vertical angle. His eyes scan his surroundings, and eventually fall upon the culprit. As he had before, he lowers the nose and flies to his target like a missile. A few bursts is all it takes to down the unsuspecting plane. He evens the plane out, and avoids hitting the ground by a fine margin.

And, in this manner, the battle continues. Dave sweeps in and out of combat. His technique is simple. He uses agility to remove himself from a sticky situation, and uses sheer force to obliterate unsuspecting targets. His victory count rises. Three. Four. Five.

His fuel guage lowers steadily, until he's forced to return to the aircraft carrier.

* * *

**25 APRIL 1912 — 13:45**  
**LOCATION: The Chinese Coastal Front**

The plane won't be refueled for another few hours, and it's not as if Dave has a lot to do. He's alone, six of the eight other pilots he'd flown with are dead, and he doesn't know the other two. So, as he sometimes does, he returns to the scene of the battle. He wanders the area, surveying the damage. In some strange way, it fascinates him. There's something hauntingly beautiful about the decayed scenery of the Surface. There's something moving about the craters left by mortars. He has a camera at the ready, and he's busied himself with photographing the remains of what he can only assume was once a fishing village.

He's trudged through loose, shifting sands and, after about a half an hour, he begins to search for a place to rest. During this search, he spots something. A single Troll is laying in the sand. Their dried, mustard colored blood has stained the earth around their body, and it's quite obvious that they're dead. Nonetheless, Dave approaches. He's drawn towards it by the small, tattered book near the corpse. Though he feels as if he shouldn't, he picks it up. He thumbs through the pages.

An alien script greets him, filling each page with what he can only assume are personal notes. Some small photos are taped in, showing scenes of daily life. A group of Trolls dine in a standard naval cafeteria. The presumed owner of the notebook stands in uniform, his jacket neatly pressed, against a plain white field. It's all evidence of a life cut short, and of the inherent similarities between the warring races. It should move Dave, but it doesn't. In fact, he's about to throw the book back to the ground when he spots another photo. In this one, there's another Troll. His face is round, his brows furrowed, and his horns small and nubby. Though Dave isn't an expert, and he's sure that there's at least one other Troll who might bear similarities with Karkat, he finds the resemblance striking. It's compelling enough for him to slip the notebook into his pocket before resuming his search for a place to rest.

* * *

**26 APRIL 1912 — 12:00**  
**LOCATION: Comstock Cabins Apartment Complex, Hangar 2, Prospit**

A note is laid out on the dining room table. Across the top of the page, seemingly pulled from an old diary, is sloppy red writing: "For Karkat Vantas." Beneath this, in yellow ink, is the Alternian equivalent. The script is sloppy, but legible to the mutantblooded troll. He takes the page, which is stained with dried yellow blood, and reads it. As is custom, the text is littered with troll "quirks," writing anomolies used to identify an individual. Each instance of the letter 'I' is doubled, and each 'S' is turned to a two.

He knows the author. Sollux Captor was a friend of his in Alternia, a former fighter pilot. He would never willingly surrender his notebook, and he certainly wouldn't let such classified material fall into the wrong hands. The realizations spurned by the mere fact that this page is in his hands stirs an unpleasant brew of emotions deep within Karkat's being. Nevertheless, it's obvious that this note is important.

To be delivered as soon as possible.

Karkat, the Alternians have learned of your escape. A small force has been assembled to return you to HIC. She has announced plans to have to publicly executed. I can't do much for you, but I can try and get this note to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol what the fuck this chapter has been finished since December and I forgot to post it


End file.
